The Summer Getaway: A Novel(5)

two



MASON BISHOP HAD the wrong address. He stared at the information on his phone, then back at the house in front of him. No, house was the wrong word. It was a...something more than just a house.

Massive, sprawling, with mismatched additions jutting out haphazardly, the three-or maybe four-story mansion looked as if it had been designed while the architect was drunk. Or by a space alien who had only heard about where humans lived, but had never actually seen that kind of structure for himself.

The roof was red tiles, the exterior walls white stucco. The front facade had arches and windows that were traditionally Spanish—not unfamiliar in the Southern California region, or so he’d read. The addition on the left had a Dr. Seuss–like quality to it, while the one on the right was maybe early colonial.

Surprisingly, once he got past the strangeness, he found the disparate elements oddly appealing. He wanted to explore the—

His phone rang.

“Bishop.”

“Hello, Mason. It’s Lillian.”

Right. Lillian Holton, the widow of his third cousin, five times removed, or whatever the relationship was. Lillian, who’d been writing him for years, ever since Leo, her husband, had passed away. In every letter she’d insisted he visit the house he would, due to some legal quirk, inherit upon Lillian’s death.

“I’m in Santa Barbara,” he told her, continuing to eye the weird-ass house. “But I’m not at the right place.”

A curtain on the main floor flickered. “Are you parked outside the most unusual house you’ve ever seen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Then you’re here. The garage is a ways back behind the house. It used to be the stables. I’ll meet you out there.”

Mason Bishop had served twenty-five years in the army. He spent two of them as a drill sergeant, turning new recruits into fighting men and women. He’d been in battle, he’d been injured, he’d seen most of the world, and he’d been married twice. Very little surprised him anymore. Except for today.

“I’d been expecting a three-bedroom ranch,” he admitted.

The laughter returned. “I thought you might be. I’m afraid this is the house your uncle has left you.”

Had Professor Lynn been his uncle? He could have sworn they were cousins—distant cousins. Which wasn’t the point. He couldn’t inherit this house. It was the size of a small city. Upkeep would cost a fortune. There had to be a mistake.

“It’s larger than I expected.”

“No one knows how big she is. Well, someone could figure it out, but I’ve never cared enough to measure. I’m hanging up now, Mason.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mason did the same, then looked at the monstrosity on the hill. Holy shit. What was he supposed to do with a house like that?

He drove his SUV down the long driveway, past windows and doors and more windows and doors before following a gentle curve to a building the size of the hospital on his last base. Here the architecture was pure Spanish, with the red roof tiles and white stucco, accented by a half dozen wooden garage doors.

He parked, then got out and looked around. The sky was a deep blue, with not a single cloud. There were unfamiliar trees and bushes, probably native, with several palm trees looking as out of place as he felt. When he inhaled, he smelled the ocean. The house was only a few blocks from the Pacific, and he would guess several of the balconies he’d seen had a perfect view.

A surprisingly normal back door opened, and a tall, thin woman stepped out. She had short white hair and a cautious but steady gait.

She approached him, her face bright with anticipation, her smile friendly.

“Mason, at last. You’ve been very elusive.”

Mason was wary around people he didn’t know, and he’d been chided all his life for being slow to warm up to strangers. But Lillian Holton radiated an open welcome that promised acceptance and understanding.

He took her outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Lillian.”

She studied him. “I can see a little of your uncle Leo in you.”

Given how distantly connected they had been, he doubted that.

She linked arms with him. “Come inside. Salvia prepared a snack. She works here five days a week to clean and look after me as well as oversee the maids and gardeners. She’s very excited to meet you. We’ve talked of nothing else for days.”

As they walked toward the house, he was aware of her fragility. Her bones felt as hollow as a bird’s. He shouldn’t be surprised. She was over ninety.

They went through a big mudroom and into a massive kitchen with white plaster walls and dark wood beams. The white cabinets had to be fifty years old, and the countertops were some fancy tile. The appliances were new—stainless steel and nicer than anything he’d ever used. Not that he cooked much.

She showed him into a large room off the kitchen. Big windows opened onto a lush walled garden. A large wooden table stood in the center, surrounded by eight chairs. A pitcher of lemonade and two glasses stood next to a plate of cookies. Two chairs were occupied by sleeping cats.

“Please,” she said, motioning to a tall-backed chair with a woven seat. She sat opposite him and poured them both a drink.

“How delightful to have you here at last,” she said, passing him his lemonade. “I thought you were never going to take me up on my invitation.”